The Descent

Ike  misunderstood. 'Are you asking me to teach you?' She kept  her voice flat. 'Do you know how to, Ike?'

He  clicked  his  tongue  in  the  negative.  Ali  instantly  recognized  the  sound  from  her time  among  the  San  Bushmen  in  southern  Africa.  That,  too?  she  wondered.  Click language? Her excitement  was building.

'Even hadals don't know how to read hadal,' he said.

'Then  you've  never  actually  seen  a  hadal  reading,'  she  clarified.  'The  ones  you  met were  illiterate.'

'They  can't read hadal writings,' Ike  repeated.  'It's lost to them. I knew one  once.  He could  read  English  and  Japanese.  But  the  old  hadal  writing  was  alien  to  him.  It  was  a great  frustration for him.'

'Wait.'  Ali  stopped,  dumbfounded.  No  one  had  ever  suggested  such  a  thing.  'You're saying the hadals read modern human languages? Do they  speak our languages too?'

'He did,' said Ike.  'He was a genius. A leader. The  rest  are... much less than him.'

'You  knew  him?'  Her  pulse  raced.  Who  else  could  he  be  speaking  of  except  the historical Satan?

Ike  stopped. He was looking  at  her,  or  through  her,  with  those  impenetrable  glacier glasses. She couldn't begin to read his thoughts. 'Ike?'

'Why are you doing this?'

'I have  a secret.' She wanted to trust  him. They  were  still touching, and  that  seemed a good start.  'What if I told you my  purpose  was  to  get  a  positive  identification  of  that man,  whatever  he  is?  To  get  more  information  about  him.  A  description  of  his  face. Clues to his behavior. Even to meet  him.'

'You won't.' Ike's  voice sounded dead.

'But anything's possible.'

'No,'  he  said.  'I  mean  you  won't.  By  the  time  you  ever  got  that  close,  it  wouldn't  be you anymore.'

She  brooded.  He  knew  something,  but  wasn't  telling.  'You're  making  him  up,'  she declared. It  was peevish, a last resort.

The  dancers flowed around them.

Ike  held  out  one  arm.  Turned  just  so  in  the  light,  Ali  could  see  the  raised  scars where  a  glyph  had  been  branded  in  the  flesh.  To  the  naked  eye,  the  scars  lay  hidden beneath more superficial markings. She  touched  them  with  her  fingertips...  the  way  a hadal might in complete darkness. 'What does it mean?' she asked.

'It's  a  claim  mark,'  he  said.  'The  name  they  gave  me.  Beyond  that,  I  don't  have  a

clue.  And  the  thing  is,  the  hadals  don't,  either.  They  just  imitate   drawings   their ancestors left a long time ago.'

Ali traced  her fingers across the scarring. 'What do you mean by  a claim mark?'

He shrugged, regarding the arm as  if  it  belonged  to  someone  else.  'There's  probably a  better  term  for  it.  That's  what  I  call  them.  Each  clan  has  its  own,  and  then  each member  his own.' He looked at her. 'I can show you others,' he said.

Ali kept  her expression calm. Inside, she was ready  to shout. All this  time,  her  quest had  held  Ike  for  its  answer.  Why  had  no  one  else  asked  this  man  these  questions  in years  past?  Perhaps they  had, and he hadn't been ready.

'Wait,  let  me  get  my  notebook.'  She  could  barely  contain  herself.  Here  was  the beginning of her glossary. The  start  of a Rosetta stone. By cracking the hadal code, she would open a whole new language to human understanding.

'Notebook?' he said.

'To draw the markings.'

'But I have  them with me.'

'You have  what?'

He started  to unbutton his pocket, then stopped. 'You're sure about this?' She stared  impatiently at the pocket, willing it to fly open. 'Yes.'

He  pulled  out  a  small  packet  of  leather  patches,  each  roughly  the  size  of  a  baseball card, and handed them to her. They  had been sliced  in  a  neat  rectangle  and  tanned  to stay  soft.  At  first  Ali  thought  the  leather  was  vellum  of  some  kind,  and  that  Ike  had used them to trace  or write  on. There  were  faint colored designs on one side. Then she saw that the colors came from tattooing, and the weltlike ridges were  keloid scars,  and there  were  tiny, pallid  hairs.  It  was  skin,  all  right.  Human  skin.  Hadal  skin.  Whatever this  was.  Ike  did  not  see  her  misgivings;  he  was  too  busy  arranging  the  strips  on  her still,  cupped  palms.  He  gave  a  running  commentary,  intent,  even  scholarly.  'Two weeks  old,'  he  said  of  one.  'Notice  the  twisted  serpents.  I've  never  come  across  that motif. You can feel them twining together,  very  skillful, whoever  incised him.'

He  laid  a  pair  of  patches  side  by  side.  'These  two  I  got  off  a  fresh  kill.  You  can  tell from  the  linked  circles,  they'd  been  travelers  from  a  long  way  off,  from  the  same region.  It's  a  pattern  I  used  to  see  on  Afghans  and  Pakis.  Captures,  you  know.  Down beneath the Karakoram.'

Ali was staring as much at him as at the skin pieces. She  had  never  been  squeamish, but she was stilled by  his collection.

'Now here's the shape of a beetle, can you make that out? See how the wings are just opening?  That's  a  different  clan  from  others  I've  known,  closed  wings,  wings  wide. And  this  one  here  has  got  me  stumped,  it's  nothing  but  dots.  Footprints,  maybe?  A counting of time? Seasons? I don't know.

'Obviously  this  is  a  cave-fish  design.  See  the  light  stalks  dangling  in  front  of  its mouth? I've  eaten  fish  like  that.  They're  easy  to  catch  by  hand  in  shallow  pools.  Wait for the light to flash, then grab them by  the stalks. Like pulling carrots or onions.'

He  set  down  the  last  of  his  patches.  'Here's  some  of  the  geometries  you  see  on  the borders  of  their  mandalas.  They're  pretty  standard  for  down  here,  a  way  to  ritually enclose  the  outer  circle  and  hold  in  the  mandala's  information.  You've  seen  them  on the  walls.  I'm  hoping  someone  in  our  bunch  can  figure  them  out.  We've  got  a  lot  of smart  people here.'

'Ike.' Ali stopped him. 'What do you mean "fresh  kill"?'

Ike  picked up the two patches she was referring to. 'A day  old. Maybe  two.'

'I mean, what. What was killed? A hadal?'

'One of the porters.  I don't know his name.'

'We're missing a porter?'

'More  like  ten  or  twelve,'  Ike  said.  'You  haven't  noticed?  In  twos  and  threes,  over the past week.  They're  sick of Walker's bullying.'

'Does  anyone  else  know?'  No  one  had  remarked  on  this  to  her.  It  signified  a  whole other level of the expedition,  one  that  was  darker  and  more  violent  than  she  –  or  the other scientists – had comprehended.

'Of course. That's  a lot of hands to lose.' Ike  could have  been talking about animals  in a mule  train.  'Walker's  got  more  of  his  troops  patrolling  the  rear  than  the  front.  He keeps  sending them off to catch one of the runaways.  He wants to make an example.'

'To punish them?  For quitting a job?'

Ike  looked  queerly  at  her.  'When  you're  running  a  string  of  men,'  he  said,  'one runaway  can  turn  you  inside  out.  The  whole  bunch  can  come  apart  on  you.  Walker knows  that.  What  he  can't  seem  to  get  through  his  skull,  though,  is  that  by  the  time they  run  away,  it's  too  late  to  keep  them.  If  they  were  mine,'  he  added  frankly,  'it would be different.'